


I Got Friends On The Other Side

by rightsidethru



Series: Blood & Bone [1]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: F/M, Gen, I promise, M/M, ONLY FOR THIS STORY, but retelling of s1's ending from peter's pov, canon style violence, pre-steter, so 1st person sorta descriptive telling of being burned alive...?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-06
Updated: 2015-07-06
Packaged: 2018-04-07 23:13:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 623
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4281663
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rightsidethru/pseuds/rightsidethru
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Peter burns.</p>
            </blockquote>





	I Got Friends On The Other Side

**I Got Friends On The Other Side**

*****

_He was in Hell._

The glass bottle had shattered against the forearm that he had brought up to protect himself with--what good that had ended up doing, anyway. (None at all, none at all and now he _burned_ in a chemically-created inferno.) All it had taken was a single moment and Peter Hale's world once more became painted in shades of blood-red and yellows and oranges so bright they glared over into crisp whites: the burning heart of a dying star.

The fire roared, ravenous, and spread along his arm, to his torso; skin blackened and flaked to reveal meat and muscle underneath--blood and plasma and gore trail over what had once been skin before they, too, were consumed by the flames. And through it all, the Alpha werewolf could hear the screams of his dying family, his Pack--past, present, future... it didn't matter, whether the cries were memories or he was reliving the worst night of his life.

All that mattered was the agony.

Peter's body writhed upon the ground-- _let it end, let it end, nothing mattered anymore, he had his revenge, let him find peace in the silent stillness (the frigidity) of death - temporary or let, just let the heat **end**_ \--and his anguished, pained howls filled the air.

When Derek approached, all Peter could feel was relief.

\--a promise that his agony would soon end, that the Alpha power would remain with the Hale line, a sort of silent, understood and unspoken penance done for taking his niece's life (no regrets, though; not when it had made him Alpha; not when she had left him behind in the hospital to rot; not when she had only returned at the hint that her tenuous claim on the Hale territory was being threatened; not when he knew that Death was just a new beginning: a game that he had cheated at to always ensure he'd come out with a full house, a game to be won). Every heavy-footed step that Derek took towards him came with an eternity's worth of meanings.

All of it mattered.

_None of it mattered._

(Just let it all **end**.)

The moon glinted upon Derek's claws, giving them--ironically--an almost silvery sheen. It was just enough to make Peter laugh, the sound more a broken wheeze than anything else. It didn't matter, however, because the sentiment was still there: always, always, _alwaysalwaysalways_ the one-time favorite uncle who saw the world with a sardonic sort of humor (and, _oh_ , nephew: you truly have no idea just what I have in store for you).

As Derek's hand swiped down, razor-sharp claws aiming without fail for the Alpha's vulnerable throat, ivory gleamed from the corner of Peter's sight: no more than a flicker, there and gone again, but just enough for the blue-eyed Hale to turn his head to the side to glance at his wayward beta's best friend. And _stared_ , even as his nephew's claws tore through Peter's jugular.

Stiles smiled brightly at the dying Alpha, teeth bared in a rictus grin, even as the top portion of his face glowed with an unearthly light beneath the midnight-dark shadow of the Hale house ruins. Features covered by the upper portions of a skull--forehead, eyesockets, nose, and sharp cheekbones--even while the colorful floral designs of a calavera etched themselves into the bone--and the boy's grin broadened even as Peter's vision began to go dark (was there truly a choice in looking away?).

"La vie me sied mal; le mort m'ira peut-être mieux," Stiles whispered, words carried along on the nighttime breeze and the scythe in his hands swaying hypnotically with each word murmured.

***

Peter Hale died.

**Author's Note:**

> The quote that Stiles gives to Peter is from François-René de Chateaubrian, **Mémoires d'outre-tombe, préface testamentaire de 1833**. It translates to: "Life doesn't suit me; perhaps death will be more befitting."
> 
> **
> 
> On a side note: This was written on my phone, so future additions to this series will--with any luck--be longer.
> 
> Also?
> 
> All will be explained.
> 
> ...in time. <3


End file.
